It’s Starting To Hit Me That My Recent Hyperfixation Of Writing And Posting More Than One Work/fic

The Silence Between Us

Summary: When a mission goes wrong and you resort to bad habits, one of the last teammates you expected finds you. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader)

Trigger Warnings: Descriptions and acts of SELF-HARM. Failed mission. Mentions of civilians death. Minors DNI. Angst. Sort of comfort at the end.

Word Count: 2k+

A/N: I wanted angst and have had this idea for a bit. Reader & Bucky are not in a relationship in this. As always, please read the warnings. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Main Masterlist

You hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt. It was supposed to be a routine mission: intel, extract, and get out. But something went wrong. Of course it did. The detonation happened too early and the blast wave swallowed a civilian transport before you could shield it. You watched the fire bloom, bright and furious, as the screams rung loud. Then the silence that followed.

You stood numbly while the team regrouped. They didn’t say anything, not really. Steve gave you a tight nod. Clint didn’t meet your eyes. Natasha’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the kind that said everything and nothing all at once. You could still feel the warmth of the explosion near your face, even hours later. You couldn’t stop seeing their faces.

So you slipped away.

The Tower was quiet, save for the hum of the lights and the occasional sound of Friday responding to someone else. You knew no one would come looking, not tonight. Not after what you did and what you failed to do. You made it to your room, but didn’t stay there. Instead, you found yourself in the bathroom with trembling hands and blurry vision. The guilt was like tar in your lungs, thick and suffocating. You tried breathing through it, tried telling yourself you didn’t mean to, but your voice cracked before you got past the first word.

And then you saw the blade.

It was instinct, not thought. You weren’t even sure why your fingers wrapped around it, why you sat down on the cold tile floor and rolled up your sleeve like it was some rehearsed choreography. You just needed something. Something sharp, something real, something that hurt more than your head and your heart. The sting was almost welcome. It focused the pain. Made it tangible and controlled.

You didn’t notice the blood until it had already patterned the grout like inkblots.

You didn’t move from the floor as the blade slipped from your fingers. It clattered against the tile, but the sound was too soft, too far away. You were somewhere else now, drifting in that space where everything is slowed down and sound becomes distant, muffled, like your ears were underwater. Your breath hitched and your chest tightened, but the tears still refused to fall. Part of you had already shut down.

You stared at your arm. At the red lines, thin but vivid, like cracks in porcelain. They weren’t deep enough, not fatal. You hadn’t meant to go that far. Or maybe you had, you didn’t know. You couldn’t tell what was intentional anymore. Everything felt heavy and hollow at the same time, resembling the feeling of a black hole that had opened inside you, pulling everything inward. Every ounce of guilt, every mistake, every scream you couldn’t stop echoing in your mind.

You didn’t want to think how you looked like.

You had caught your reflection earlier by accident. Your face was pale, jaw tight, eyes…empty. You certainly didn’t look like yourself. You wanted to punch the glass, to shatter it, to make the outside match the inside. But your body had been too tired. Too numb. The only thing you could feel now was the warm, sticky drag of blood as it crept down your skin.

You curled in on yourself, knees pulled tight to your chest, one arm wrapped around your ribs, the other held away like something foreign, something broken. You wished the floor would crack open and swallow you whole. You wished you could disappear.

The thoughts came in waves. You should have died instead of them. They didn’t sign up for this. You did. You promised to protect people. The words felt like knives. And you took them all, again and again, let them bury themselves in your spine until there was nothing left to do but breathe shallowly and wait. Wait for the blood to dry, for the guilt to rot you from the inside out.

Not caring how long you sat there with your head down, eyes closed. You didn’t even hear the door open.

Maybe it was unlocked. Maybe you’d forgotten to lock it in your haze. Or maybe he just picked it, quiet as death, like he’d been trained to be. You barely flinched when the soft creak of the hinges gave him away. But your eyes didn’t lift. You stayed there, folded up like paper, still bleeding, still silent. You didn’t have the energy to care or do anything else.

There was a pause. A breath.

“…Shit.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It was low, rough, somewhere between a curse and a sigh. You knew that voice though. It was the one that rarely spoke to you. Not out of cruelty. Just…distance. He was always at the edge of the group, a little like you. Watching more than participating. Following orders, fighting hard, and saying little. You never expected him to be the one standing in your bathroom doorway, taking in the sight of you broken on the floor.

But there he was.

Bucky didn’t rush. He didn’t bark your name or kneel with some dramatic flare. Instead, he stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The kind of silence that settles before a storm. You heard the faint clink of metal fingers curling into a fist, then loosening.

“You’re bleeding,” He said.

You let out a weak, joyless sound. It might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a sob. “Yeah. Noticed.”

You didn’t look up, knowing his eyes flickered to the bloody blade beside your broken form.

There was more silence. But it wasn’t empty this time, it was tense. A wire pulled too tight. Then the sound of fabric shifting. Movement. You felt the air change as he knelt beside you, just barely close enough to be felt but not touched.

“I saw what happened today,” Bucky murmured. “You think I don’t know what that does to someone?”

You turned your face away, more toward the tile. “I killed them.”

“No,” He said. “You didn’t.”

Your laugh came again, sharper this time. Bitter. “That’s not how it looked.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He didn’t feed you platitudes or repeat what Steve might’ve said. Instead, he shifted again, setting something down beside him. A towel? Maybe his jacket? You didn’t look. You couldn’t. But his voice stayed low, grounded.

“You freeze up when it happens,” He said, like he was talking to himself more than you. “The explosion. The screaming. It’s like your body remembers too much. You forget how to move. How to breathe.”

You said nothing.

“I’ve had days like that,” Bucky continued. “Too many. Days where I couldn’t even look at my hands without seeing the blood that wasn’t mine. That’s not something you can just… walk off.”

You blinked hard. Your vision blurred with tears that finally, finally started to fall. “I just wanted to save them.”

“I know,” He said, almost a whisper.

There was a long pause before you felt the faintest touch, metal fingers brushing yours. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just… being there. Present. Steady. You didn’t pull away. Not this time.

You still hadn’t looked at him, but it didn’t matter.

“I’m not good at this,” He exhaled. “But I know what it’s like to be drowning in your own head. So don’t sit in it alone.”

Your voice cracked when you asked, “Why are you here?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. Then he said something so quiet it nearly disappeared:

“Because I saw myself in you.”

He didn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he stood, the scrape of his boots on the tile echoing softly, and walked toward the small cabinet in the corner. You could hear the rustling of supplies: bandages, antiseptic, gauze, who knows what else. The faint sound of a drawer sliding open. He moved like someone who had done this before, not hurried, not hesitant, just deliberate.

You stayed still, frozen against the cold bathroom floor, not knowing what to do with the sudden tenderness in his actions. There was something surreal about it. The way he was treating you with a care that no one had given you for so long, maybe ever. The coldness of the tiles beneath your legs was starting to seep into your bones, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

When he returned, it was with the first aid kit in his hands, but his expression was a bit softer, unguarded. He didn’t try to force you to look at him. Didn’t demand anything of you. He simply sat beside you again, pulling a disinfectant wipe from the kit and placing it in his lap.

He didn’t rush, didn’t say a word, as he took your arm gently, the metal of his prosthetic cool against your skin. His touch was careful, as if you were fragile in a way that didn’t show, like something beneath the surface was breaking, even though you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel it yet. His thumb brushed lightly over the cuts: too small, too shallow, but enough to leave marks.

"Let me clean them," He looked at you, his voice calm but firm.

You didn’t pull away. Not because you trusted him completely, but because you felt like you were too far gone to care about anything else.

He started with the first cut, swabbing at the wound with the antiseptic wipe, the sting of it sharp and biting. You flinched, but he was there, steady. His eyes were fixed on your arm, on the task at hand. You could feel his focus: no judgment, just intent to heal, to make the pain go away, if only for a moment.

You know you should have fought harder. Made sure to lock the door. Pushed him away. The man who had been through hell and back didn’t need to deal with this. But for some reason, he was. You didn’t know what it meant either and that scares you. Your thoughts were interrupted once more.

"You don’t have to talk," Bucky murmured after a beat, his voice low, just for you. "I know you’re not ready for that. But, know you don’t have to carry this alone. We all carry our own ghosts.”

You didn't say anything. His fingers worked efficiently, bandaging your wounds with gentle precision. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t tense or suffocating this time. It was comforting in its quietness, like two people who didn’t need words to understand the weight of everything that had happened today. The first aid kit was closed, the sound of it calming, rhythmic.

When he finished, he looked at you, his metal hand hovering near your shoulder, as though waiting for permission. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t ask him to leave. You were still, lost in the feeling of someone caring for you in a way you hadn’t expected. Bucky didn’t press for anything. He simply let his hand rest on your shoulder.

“You’re not what happened today,” He stated quietly, his thumb brushing across the fabric of your sleeve, the touch almost tender. “You’re not what you think you are. You don’t need to punish yourself for the things out of your control.”

You didn’t know how to answer him, so you didn’t. The quietness in the room felt like a balm, the silence enveloping you like a weighted blanket. His presence was like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, strong and unwavering. You didn’t feel the need to hide, not with him sitting beside you, patient and understanding.

Finally, he spoke again. “You need rest.” His voice was softer, quieter now, as though he knew it wasn’t just physical healing you needed. “Let me help you to your bed. Rest a little. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

You still didn’t respond or move. But this time, when his hand gently urged you to your feet, you let yourself follow his lead. You took another breath, closing your eyes just for a moment. For in that quiet space, you weren’t alone.

Thank you so much!! I love writing for unhinged/chaotic reader. It’s so wild lol

Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Found some footage of unhinged!reader training rookies:

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMS8vnswe/

(Hi! I love your works, you're amazing!!)

I’M DYING LOL AND IT WORKS SOMEHOW. So, that got me thinking how would she train them…. Now we turn it into a Drabble/blurb [Confession: I don’t know the difference between those two yet LOL] Happy reading! Also greetings! Thank you so much, always so nice seeing you around. Thanks for following along!!! :D

Unqualified, Unhinged, and Unforgettable

Summary: A bunch of excited, hopeful rookies have the absolute displeasure honor of being trained under you.

Word Count: 700+

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

The rookies were excited. Nervous, but excited.

After all, they’d been assigned to training with one of the Avengers. A respected, battle-hardened legend. Probably someone like Steve Rogers. Or maybe Natasha Romanoff! God, even Sam Wilson would be incredible.

“Wait,” One of them whispered. “Who’s that?”

You walked onto the training mat holding a stick of string cheese like a cigarette, wearing mismatched socks and aviators. You pointed the cheese at them.

“Morning, nerds.”

The recruits glanced at each other.

“…Are you the trainer?” One asked hesitantly.

You bit the cheese, chewed, and nodded. “Absolutely. Avengers’ top strategic mind. Fun fact, I have never successfully used a revolving door. You’ll respect me soon enough though.”

One recruit hesitantly raised their hand. “Why are you barefoot?”

“I fight better when grounded to the earth’s vibrations,” You replied. “Also I couldn’t find my shoes.”

And so began the most absurd training session in S.H.I.E.L.D. history.

-

Hour 1:

You paired them off. “First, pick a partner. Then pretend they just betrayed you in a high-stakes casino heist.”

They hesitated, looking around at each other as they tried to process the instruction. You shouted, “Feel the betrayal! Feel the drama! Slap them if you need to!”

One poor recruit started sobbing. Another screamed, “I LOVED YOU, TYLER,” and tackled their partner into a fountain.

You applauded. “Amazing. Raw and painful. That’s real combat.”

-

Hour 2:

You rolled a blender onto the mat with duct tape, Christmas lights, and three timers.

“This,” You announced dramatically, “is your bomb.”

“That’s a blender,” Someone whispered slowly.

You leaned in, deadly serious. “That’s what they want you to think.”

The rookies huddled, genuinely trying to figure it out. One made the mistake of cutting the red wire (which was actually a Twizzler). The blender turned on and shot glitter everywhere.

“That was a decoy,” You told them solemnly. “Now you’re covered in regret and sequins.”

-

Hour 3:

You took them on a “field simulation” which turned out to be a surprise shopping trip to IKEA.

“Navigate this labyrinth. Assemble a chair. Use only hex keys and trauma.”

Two recruits got lost in the kitchen model displays. One called you from inside a wardrobe. You refused to help.

“If you can’t escape IKEA,” You said, eating a meatball with your bare hands, “How will you escape Hydra?”

-

Aftermath

When the rookies returned to HQ, some crying, some covered in glitter, and one holding an emotional support fern; they were never the same.

But they were better, somehow. Sharper and unpredictable. Capable of disarming actual bombs and Swedish furniture with nothing but rage and a plastic fork.

Bucky found you later in the common room, sitting on the couch, eating marshmallows with chopsticks and watching a documentary on nuclear fission at max volume. You were also wearing his hoodie, which meant you were either thriving or about to cause an international incident.

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “You turned those rookies into emotionally unstable weaponized gremlins.”

You didn't look away from the TV. “I prefer the term ‘innovative prodigies.’”

“They challenged Sam to a duel using plungers and grief metaphors.”

“They need to learn how to weaponize emotion. That’s day three material.”

“They built a working trebuchet and launched my motorcycle onto the roof.”

You finally turned to look at him. “And did it not work?”

Bucky stared at you. “You trained them for one day.”

You gave him a slow blink, then gently offered him a marshmallow with the chopsticks. “You love me.”

“I love you,” He said flatly, taking the marshmallow. “I also think you might be a war crime in human form.”

You grinned. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He walked over and dropped his head into your lap with a tired sigh, arm slinging around your waist. “Next time you train anyone, I’m sedating you first.”

“Won’t happen but that’s fair,” You said, petting his hair with one chopstick. “But you have to admit… they’re kind of unstoppable now.”

From down the hallway came a loud bang, a screech of victory, and someone yelling, “FOR SCIENCE AND THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP!”

You sipped juice from your “World’s Best Trainer” mug and said softly, “My legacy begins.”

Bucky just groaned. “God help us all.”

Aww, thank you so much!!! The way they show their care and love for each other is so sweet. I loved writing this one-shot. Thank you for reading! ♡

The Price of Saving Until You Care

Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume

Word Count: 1.5k+

A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

Pain was a strange thing.

Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.

Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.

At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.

Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.

That’s why you kept doing it for him.

He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.

So you made the choice he never would.

You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.

The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.

He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.

“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.

You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.

Now, you’d done it too many times to count.

You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.

But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.

That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.

The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.

You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.

He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”

You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.

“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”

Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”

He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.

Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.

Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.

Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”

“It’s already done,” You whispered.

He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”

You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.

“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”

“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.

“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”

His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”

“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:

“I care.”

You blinked.

“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Your breath caught.

He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”

He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.

Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.

He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”

You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”

“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”

You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”

This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.

“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”

He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.

“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”

You looked at him, quiet.

He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”

Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.

“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.

“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.

And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.

Rewritten

Summary: You wake up in a cozy home with no memory of anything. You find your alleged lovers reassuring you that you’ve always lived there and that they’ll stay by your side through this difficult time. However, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is wrong. (Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader x Dark!Steve Rogers)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Dark Steve Rogers. Psychological & emotional manipulation. Memory loss. Gaslighting. Alludes to Kidnapping.

Word Count: 4.9k+

A/N: To be honest, I had the idea for this one but struggled to write it. I hope it turned out decent enough. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Main Masterlist

You wake to the soft warmth of sunlight spilling through sheer curtains, casting an ethereal glow over the room. The faint scent of pancakes lingers in the air, drifting through your senses like an old, forgotten memory.

The bed is plush beneath you and too soft, almost as if it were made to cocoon you, to hold you in a place of perfect comfort. The sheets are smooth, cool, but they don't belong. They're foreign, unfamiliar. You blink, disoriented. Something about the room seems… off. There’s a quiet stillness to it, a sense of being watched, though the air is unthreatening. A low hum of something distant, like a heart beating just a little too fast.

The room is small, but cozy. Elegant, even. The soft glow of the morning sun is reflected in the delicate furniture such as a nightstand with a polished wood surface or the dresser with a few scattered items on top. Your eyes, still unfocused, drift to a framed picture on the nightstand. You reach out automatically, though your hand trembles slightly as you grasp the edge of the frame.

The photo inside is a strange sight.

It’s a picture of you. You’re smiling, laughing, in fact. Your arms are wrapped around two men, standing close to each other with their own hands resting on your shoulders. You look happy, relaxed. Safe.

But you don’t recognize them. Not at all.

The taller man has blond hair, a strong jawline, and eyes that should be comforting, but they don’t reach you. He’s smiling down at you as if you were someone he cared about, but you can’t remember ever knowing him. The other man has dark, disheveled hair, a shadow of stubble along his jaw, and eyes that seem… more distant. Cold. But even as you stare, your heart feels like it’s trying to remember something buried, something lost.

You drop the frame back onto the nightstand with a soft thud, and for a moment, the silence is deafening.

“Hey.”

The voice comes from the doorway, low and warm, though the words hold an edge you can’t place.

You snap your head up, your breath quickening as you sit up on the bed. A man stands there tall, broad-shouldered, with a metal arm hanging at his side. His eyes, dark and full of something unreadable, watch you carefully. You can feel his gaze weighing on you, measuring you.

“You’re awake,” His voice is soft but firm. He looks oddly… relieved. But there's something about the way he watches you, something that doesn’t feel quite right.

“Who… who are you?” Your voice is hoarse, trembling, and you immediately feel a sense of panic clawing at your chest.

The man takes a step forward, his expression unreadable. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. You don’t remember us again, but that’s okay.” His voice dips a little, softer. “It happens.”

“Remember? I don’t remember anything.”

A sharp, sudden shift in the air. You don’t realize it until the second man enters the room. He’s around the same height, though leaner. Blond. His gaze falls on you immediately, and you feel an odd wave of something unfamiliar crash over you, a strange mixture of comfort and something darker.

The first man, the one who spoke, stands a little straighter at the sight of him. The second man, Steve, doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he’s relieved to see you awake.

But something is wrong. You can’t place it. There’s an unease in the pit of your stomach, like the weight of their presence is too heavy for you to bear.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Steve says, his voice gentle but steady. “Hydra did things to you… erased your memories. But we’re here now. We’ll help you remember.”

Your hands grip the edge of the blanket, knuckles white. Your head feels thick, heavy, as if there’s a fog clouding your thoughts. “I don’t… know you. I don’t remember this place. I don’t know who you are.”

“You’ve been here before,” Steve continues, taking a slow step closer to you. “This isn’t the first time, but don’t worry. It will get easier. We’ll help you through it.” His hand reaches toward you, a tentative gesture, but there’s something possessive in the way he moves, something that makes you shudder.

“You always forget,” The man with the metal arm, Bucky, adds quietly. He doesn’t step closer, but his eyes are locked onto you, searching. “But it’s okay. We’ll remind you.”

“Don’t lie to me,” You say, your voice trembling. There’s an instinct in you, a pull to trust what they’re saying, but your gut screams that something isn’t right. “Who are you? What have you done to me?”

Steve’s hand lingers in the air, just a breath from your cheek, before he withdraws it slowly. “You were lost. You didn’t remember us the first time, either.” His words are soft, almost too soft. “But you will. You always do.”

Bucky stands silent behind Steve, his eyes fixed on you with something too intense to describe. His posture is stiff, controlled, as if he’s afraid of moving too suddenly. But there’s something cold in his gaze, something calculating, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break.

A memory flickers in your mind, so brief it might have been imagined: a faint moment of laughter, of warmth. You and these men together, somewhere you can’t quite place. But it vanishes before you can hold onto it.

“Just… tell me the truth,” You whisper, your breath shallow. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“You’re safe,” Steve assures, kneeling beside the bed, his hand brushing the side of your face with the gentleness of a lover. “You’re always safe with us.”

Bucky steps forward then, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he watches you. His voice is low. “We’ve kept you safe every time, haven’t we?”

Something heavy fills the air between you. They’re speaking like you’re a child they’ve been caring for, but you know, something inside you knows, that’s not all of it. This isn’t just care. This feels like control.

“You belong with us after all,” Bucky murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

You flinch back as the words reverberate in your chest.

The door locks behind them with a quiet click, and you feel it reverberate in your chest like the closing of a cage. The room suddenly seems smaller, suffocating. You try to stand, to make sense of your surroundings, but your legs feel unsteady beneath you, as if they’ve forgotten how to hold your weight.

Steve remains kneeling beside the bed, his hand still hovering near your face, his touch a strange mixture of warmth and weight. His eyes are searching your face with a tenderness that should be comforting. But it isn’t.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Steve says, his voice almost too smooth, too comforting. “You’re home now.“

“But I… don’t know you,” You whisper, the words breaking against the thick tension in the air.

You don’t know how to feel. There’s a pull in your chest, an undeniable ache to trust him, but every fiber of your being tells you to run, to escape this unfamiliar warmth. But where would you go? There are no windows in this room, only soft, almost hypnotic light and the oppressive presence of two men who insist they’ve known you for far longer than you can remember.

Bucky watches from across the room, his metal arm resting against the doorframe, his eyes dark and calculating. It’s hard to tell if he’s waiting for you to calm down, or if he’s simply studying you, waiting for the exact moment your resistance breaks.

“We’ve been through this before,” Bucky says, his voice low, but it carries an edge of something dark. "Every time, you don’t remember, but you get it back. We’re here for you.”

Your eyes flicker to him, his posture so tense, it’s like he’s bracing for something, waiting for a signal you can’t see. You don’t know him. You don’t know any of this, and yet… The flicker of a memory dances in the back of your mind again. You see yourself in his arms held close, like you belong. But it’s all too foggy, too distant. The image fades before you can grasp it fully.

Bucky shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Steve. His body language speaks of restraint, like he’s holding something back, fighting a temptation to move closer. His hand flexes by his side, the metallic fingers of his left hand clenching in a subtle but telling motion.

“You don’t remember the last time we had breakfast together, do you?” Steve asks gently, as if testing a boundary. “You laughed so hard when I tried to cook the eggs. You called me an idiot, and then we ate on the couch, watching that romance show you love.”

You search his eyes for any hint of deception, but they’re so earnest, so soft. The words tug at something inside you, a small thread of something familiar, but your mind stubbornly holds its ground. You’re not sure if you want to trust him or if you’re simply desperate to feel like you’re home.

“I don’t remember,” You whisper, your voice catching. You want to believe him, but the words don’t feel right. “I… I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Steve says, smiling as though this is just another part of the process, as if it’s routine. As if the confusion is natural, and it should be expected. “We’ll remind you, just like we always do.”

Bucky steps forward, his voice colder now, more insistent. “You always say that, Steve.” His eyes never leave you. “We’ve done this before. She’ll get it back, eventually.”

There’s something unsettling in the way he speaks, as if he’s not entirely sure himself that you are the same person who walked in here before. You look at Bucky, trying to make sense of him. There’s an intensity to his gaze, a hardness in his features that doesn’t soften, not even when he speaks. The way he stands, so still and poised, makes you feel like a mouse trapped in a predator’s gaze.

“Every time,” He murmurs, a strange satisfaction in his voice. “We’ll remind you. You’ll come back.”

Come back.

It feels like a command, like a foregone conclusion, and something inside you rebels against it. You want to ask him what he means, ask them both what they mean, but the words stick in your throat. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Steve reaches up, cupping your chin gently with his hand. His touch is soft, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker beneath it. “We’re not going to leave you. You’ll remember. It’ll be like it always was. Like it should be.”

A flicker of discomfort sharpens your senses. There’s a strange, hollow weight behind his words, as though they don’t just want you to remember—they need you to.

“What… what if I don’t remember?” You ask, the words coming out quieter than you intended.

Steve leans in closer, his voice lower now, coaxing. “You will. You always do.”

Bucky steps forward, his eyes cold, unreadable. His lips barely twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s fleeting, like it doesn’t quite belong. “We’ll help you. We always do.”

Something dark unfurls in your chest, a quiet, nagging suspicion that they’ve been here before. They’ve watched you forget, watched you become someone else. Someone who depends on them, who trusts them. And every time, you come back.

You come back.

The weight of the realization presses into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You don’t know why you keep forgetting, but surely that must mean something is wrong. However, you haven’t figured out yet if it’s you or them.

-

The days blur together. Each one feels like a repetition of the last, a loop that tightens around you with every passing moment. You never quite know if what you're experiencing is real or another fragment of the memory that Steve and Bucky insist belongs to you.

Today is no different.

The room you’re confined to feels like it’s been designed for you to forget where you end and the walls begin. It’s soft, sterile, but just close enough to warm for you to feel like you should be at peace. But there’s no peace in your chest. There’s only an aching tension that never seems to let up.

Steve enters first, his footsteps silent on the floor as he walks toward you. He doesn’t speak immediately, just watches, as if waiting for something to happen. His eyes lock on yours, and for a second, you feel as though he’s peeling you open, reading you like a book.

"You’re quiet today," He says, his voice low, almost coaxing. "Not feeling well? You know I’m always here to help."

It’s a familiar line, one that’s said so many times it sounds like a chant, a mantra. Each word meant to soothe, to ease you into a false sense of security. But it doesn’t work. Not anymore.

"I'm fine," You reply, the words tasting bitter as they leave your mouth. Your throat feels dry, constricted. You’ve said this before, but it’s always the same. The moment the words leave your lips, you realize you don’t mean them.

Steve tilts his head, his gaze narrowing slightly. "You know that’s not true. You’ve been pushing us away, but that’s okay. We can fix this. We always do."

You want to protest, to argue that you don’t need fixing, but the words get tangled up in your mind. Something about his certainty, the way he speaks, makes it feel like you’ve always been broken. Maybe you are broken. Maybe you’ve always been.

Before you can respond, Bucky steps into the room, his presence an undeniable weight. His eyes flicker over to you, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. There's a moment where neither of them says anything, just letting the silence stretch and press down on you. It feels like an eternity.

"I told you not to rush it," Bucky says quietly, but there’s no malice in his voice, just an edge of impatience, like he's waiting for something more. "She’s still trying to adjust."

Steve glances at Bucky and then back to you, his smile softening. "I know. But we need you to start remembering, sweetheart." His voice takes on a subtle urgency, like this is the moment he’s been waiting for.

You feel a cold shiver run through your body at the word "remember." It’s always been the same, always the same pressure—remember who you are, remember what you’ve lost, remember them.

But what if you can’t remember? What if you never will?

"I don’t know how to," You say, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth, and it feels like the most vulnerable thing you could admit. But it’s a risk. A dangerous one.

Steve doesn’t respond with anger or frustration, he simply steps closer to you. The movement is slow, deliberate. His fingers brush lightly against your wrist, sending a jolt through your body that feels almost too intimate. Like he's trying to ground you to him, to make you realize how close you are to him.

"That’s why we’re here," Steve says, his voice soft, but there's a weight behind it now, an undeniable intensity. "We’re not going to let you suffer through this alone.”

You try to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go. The bed, the walls, they close in around you. Steve’s hand is warm on your wrist, steady, unwavering. He’s not letting you escape. And even if you wanted to, even if you tried to run*, where would you go?

Bucky watches from the doorway, his eyes tracing the movement between you and Steve, his expression unreadable. There's something calculating about the way he stands there, like he’s waiting for a signal, for you to break, for you to return to him.

“You should let her breathe, Steve,” Bucky says, his voice like gravel. It’s a command wrapped in the semblance of care, but you hear the warning in it.

Steve nods, his hand slipping away from your wrist reluctantly. “You’re right,” He mutters, his voice distant as if lost in thought. He steps back, but only just. His presence still looms over you, like a shadow you can’t escape.

You don’t know how to breathe without him close, without Bucky just in the corner of your vision. They’ve become your everything and nothing. They’re all you know and all you can remember.

“What if I never remember?” You ask again, the question hanging in the air between the three of you.

Bucky’s lips curl into something that could almost be a comforting smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You will. You always do.” His words are like a broken record, but there’s something in the way he says them that makes your heart sink.

Steve leans in, placing his hands on either side of your face, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t need to worry about that,” He says, his voice so soothing, so tender. “We’ll help you find it. Every time you forget, we’ll remind you. It’s what we do.”

You want to protest, want to scream that you don’t need them to remind you of anything. But the words choke you. You’re too scared to speak, too frightened to resist, because something in you knows, they won’t let you.

"You belong here with us," Steve murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, intimate gesture that makes your skin crawl, even as your body betrays you and relaxes into it. "You always will."

And when he pulls away, it’s with the unsettling certainty that, even if you can’t remember it now, you will. You’ll always come back to them. You always do.

-

The days have begun to bleed into one another with a strange consistency, each one more difficult to tell apart than the last. The constant pull of Steve’s calm assurance, of Bucky’s quiet intensity, is starting to unravel something deep inside you.

It’s not that you don’t resist. You do. You fight against the tug in your chest, the strange sense of familiarity that lingers in every word they say, every look they share. But it’s getting harder to find the strength to push back.

Tonight, the room feels different. Softer, maybe. The lights are dimmed lower than usual, the shadows casting a calming blanket over everything. It should be unsettling, the dark corners and the tightness in your chest, but it isn’t. Not tonight.

Steve is sitting on the edge of the bed, his usual spot. He’s not forcing closeness, but you can still feel him there, a steady presence in your peripheral. Bucky stands near the door, leaning casually against the frame, his arms folded across his chest. They’re watching you, waiting.

You know what they want. They’ve made it clear in countless ways. Your memory. Your trust. Your acceptance.

And you don’t want to give it to them. But every time they speak, every time they’re close, it’s like the walls around you start to crumble. You don’t want to let go of what little resistance you have left, but the pull… it’s relentless.

“Do you feel it, too?” Steve asks, his voice low, as if the question is a secret shared only between the two of you. His eyes hold something tender, an almost imperceptible plea, hidden beneath the surface.

You know it’s a question you’re supposed to answer. You know that whatever response you give will shape what comes next. And for the first time in days, you feel the weight of that choice, heavy in your chest.

You swallow, your throat dry. “Feel what?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper. You’re stalling, buying yourself time, but it’s pointless. You already know what he’s asking.

Steve’s lips curl into a small, patient smile. “That we’re closer now. You and I. Bucky too. We’re… we’re getting you back. Piece by piece.”

A wave of something washes over you, something so familiar it almost hurts. You don’t know if it’s relief or fear, but it feels like the beginning of something you can’t stop. Something you’ve been slowly inching toward since the moment you arrived.

“I don’t…” You want to protest, want to say you don’t need them, but the words die on your lips. I don’t need them, You try to think, but the thought has no weight anymore. It’s hollow, empty.

Bucky’s voice cuts through the air, low and almost soothing, though there’s a bite to it that feels like it’s meant just for you. “It’s okay to accept it, you know. You don’t need to fight anymore.”

You look at him, his dark eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. His gaze isn’t soft, but it’s not cruel, either. It’s knowing. He’s been waiting for this. Waiting for you to break.

“I’m not…” You try to force the words out, but they don’t sound like your own anymore. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince. Them, or yourself.

Steve’s hand rests on your shoulder, his touch warm and gentle, but there’s an undeniable pressure in it. “It’s okay to stop fighting,” he repeats, softer now. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re the ones who care for you.”

And then, just as his words settle in, Bucky steps forward, his boots heavy on the floor, his presence overwhelming. He kneels beside you, his fingers brushing against your cheek in an oddly tender gesture.

“Let go,” He murmurs, his voice rough, like he’s almost pleading. “Let us take care of you. Let us remind you what it’s like. Let us remind you of who we are to you.”

His words are a poison you can’t resist. Something inside you stirs, a flicker of something you can’t place, but it’s undeniable. It’s like a missing puzzle piece clicking into place. You’ve always known them, haven’t you? You’ve always belonged to them. You don’t fight the tears that begin to well up in your eyes. Not because you’re afraid, but because it feels like something you’ve needed to release for so long. A truth you’ve buried deep, but they’ve pulled to the surface.

You don’t speak for a long moment, not sure what to say. You can’t say the words you need to. You’re afraid of the acceptance that’s threatening to bubble up.

But when Steve kisses the top of your head, when Bucky’s hand slides into yours, you feel the faintest hint of peace settle inside you. It’s quiet, like a lullaby you’ve heard before, long ago. Something you’ve always known. The tension in your chest begins to release, and your body leans into them.

“I… I remember,” You whisper, the words sounding fragile as they leave your lips. They’re barely a confession, more of an acceptance.

Steve’s smile widens, something dark and knowing in it. “Good. You always do.”

And as Bucky pulls you into his arms, the last remnants of your resistance fade away, leaving only the comforting weight of their control. You’ve stopped fighting. You’ve stopped trying to remember a life that’s no longer yours.

And now, it feels like you’ve come home.

As you lean into them, your body relaxed against theirs, Steve and Bucky exchange a quiet glance. To anyone else, it might seem like a moment of victorious tenderness, a sign that their carefully woven web of lies and control had finally worked. But for them, it’s the culmination of something far more sinister.

The truth, hidden behind layers of manipulation, slowly rises in the silence between them.

Bucky’s fingers curl tighter around the back of your neck, his touch deceptively soft. The dark gleam in his eyes says everything that words can’t. You’re finally theirs. The power, the rush of having you in their control, it’s almost intoxicating. But even now, when the most delicate part of their plan is complete, he can’t help but remember the meticulous preparations that had gone into this moment.

Steve is still close to you, his arm draped around your waist, his fingers moving gently up and down your arm in a soothing, possessive gesture. His smile is warm, patient, and reassuring, remaining on his face. It’s always been about the long game for Steve. They needed to win your trust first, break you down piece by piece. And it’s been slow. Too slow, maybe. But in the end, they always knew they’d have you.

What you don’t know, what you’ll never know, are the dark truths that have led them to this point.

-

Steve’s eyes glint with something darker, something sharper as he watches you, the one they’ve spent so long breaking down. You lean into him, hair brushing his shoulder. He could almost feel the weight of the years they’ve spent hiding their true intentions, every step of the plan coming to fruition. But in this moment, the only thing that matters is that you’re finally his.

Ours.

He thinks of the syringe hidden away in the drawer, tucked beneath a pile of medical equipment. The tranquilizer, strong enough to put even the most stubborn of minds to sleep, had been a backup. A backup they’d needed far too many times in the past. Every time you’d resisted. Every time you’d tried to break free from them. The memories you couldn’t keep, erased and rewritten. It had taken months to break you down. The endless resets, the subtle manipulation of your memories, it had all been worth it.

He thinks of the old HYDRA tech they’d found buried in the basement of the abandoned facility. They’d salvaged it, repurposed it for their own needs. It was the ultimate insurance policy. A device that would wipe your memories clean, start over again, give them the chance to erase everything and make you theirs all over again. They’d already used it once when you’d tried to escape. It had worked, just as they’d known it would.

And the faked photos. Oh, all the faked things they’d planted around the house and in your mind, subtle distortions of the past. You had thought they were real memories, but they were simply moments they’d manufactured from nothing. Childhood photos, moments that never happened. But you didn’t know. You never would. And now, as you lean into him, trusting him as if he’s the one person who truly cares about you, Steve can’t help but savor the sweetness of your submission.

Meanwhile, Bucky watches you, his fingers gently stroking the side of your face. He’s careful, almost tender, as if he’s not the one who had quietly orchestrated the destruction of everything you once knew. His eyes drift to the scarred corner of the room where they’d had their first confrontation, the first moment of resistance. He can still see the look in your eyes, the defiance, the unwillingness to bend. That’s when he’d first known they’d need to go further than they had before.

Bucky has always been the one to deal with the physical side of things. He’s the one who uses the needles when necessary, the one who watches as memories are erased and rewritten. He doesn’t mind. He never has. His past is just as twisted, just as broken, and he knows that the only way to keep someone is to make them forget everything they thought they knew. Make them bend to his will. Make them need him.

And so he did. The needles, the tech. He’d been the one to use the memory-wiping tech when you tried to break away, your mind racing with escape plans and a hope you hadn’t even known you were capable of. They couldn’t have you escaping again. No. You belonged to them. You would be made to understand that with time.

You don’t remember the screams, the pain. You don’t remember when they had locked you in that cold room and kept you there for days, only feeding you enough to keep you alive. You never remember the real consequences of those escapes. It’s for the best you didn’t.

Together, they had faked everything. The photos, the false memories, the false story, all crafted a perfect illusion of the past. Bucky had been the one to suggest it, to suggest that they give you a history. Let you believe in something. You were fragile after all, even with all the strength you had in you, and you needed the comfort of false hope to hold on to. It had been easy to implant those photos, to whisper lies of childhood friends and tender moments, and you had accepted them, like a child accepts the world their parents give them. You believed.

Now, you’re looking at them, unaware of the depths of their lies. Of how they’ve woven a prison out of every word, every touch. They’re building something permanent within you, and you can’t see it yet.

But you will. Eventually, you’ll understand. And when you do, you’ll want it. You’ll want them. They’ve worked too hard for you to slip away. You’ve already lost. And the more you lose yourself in them, the more you forget, the more they can control you.

That’s the way it always goes.

Bucky glances at Steve, catching the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. They’re in this together. Always have been. You’re theirs now.

And neither of them is letting go.

I’m happy to hear so!!! So far I have three fics on unhinged/chaotic reader, hopefully I can make it a series or something. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Disastrous Dates

Summary: Bucky wanted to take you on an actual date. It was meant to be sweet. Normal. Quiet. Unfortunately, you were involved. So naturally, it was none of those things. He tried two more times only to have them go as successfully and normal as the first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 2.9k+

A/N: Not going to lie, I had just written the first date to be a blurb or super short one-shot; but I wondered what the other dates would look like and thought it’d be fun to explore more of reader’s chaotic side. I’ll explore more of the dumb mixed with genius side in later works. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Prequel | Extra

The night started with promise.

You wore pants that didn’t have a hole in them, Bucky wore a real shirt with buttons, and neither of you were bleeding. Progress. He even opened the car door for you, all old-fashioned charm and tight-lipped grumbling, and for a brief, shimmering second, it felt like something resembling normal.

Dinner had… potential.

You sat across from him at a tiny Italian place, candlelight flickering between you, and for maybe two full minutes, it was peaceful. He was smiling, barely, but it counted and you weren’t doing anything weird yet. You even managed a sincere, almost romantic sentence:

“You’ve got great hands,” You said, eyes on his fingers wrapped around a wine glass. “Very stabby. I like that in a man.”

He blinked at you. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

Then came the moment. The Moment. The part of the evening where fate, or physics, or your godforsaken inability to just exist normally kicked in.

You were halfway through telling Bucky about the time you mistook a street magician for a real sorcerer and tried to recruit him for the Avengers when you leaned a little too far back in your chair to demonstrate his “mystical flair.”

And promptly tipped the entire thing to the ground. You hit the floor with the grace of a brick dropped from a tenth-story window, one leg in the air, one hand somehow still holding your water glass like a trophy.

Bucky didn’t move. He just stared down at you.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” You wheezed. “Just checking the integrity of the floor.” Still upside down, you added, “Feels solid.”

The waiter cautiously stepped over your foot to refill Bucky’s wine.

You climbed back into your chair with all the dignity of a feral goose being escorted out of a five-star hotel, hair sticking up on one side, eyes bright with chaos. Bucky was covering his mouth with one hand. You weren’t sure if he was horrified or trying not to laugh. Possibly both.

“So,” You said, stabbing your pasta like it had wronged you. “You still in love with me or did I kill it?”

Bucky chuckled, actually chuckled, which most would say was rarer than a solar eclipse.

“I think I love you more, honestly. It’s like dating a walking concussion.”

You grinned and twirled spaghetti around your fork with entirely too much enthusiasm. Some of it hit the wall.

“You’re the one who kissed me, barnacle boy.”

“I regret nothing.”

He reached across the table to brush a strand of sauce-streaked hair from your face. It was a soft moment. A brief oasis of genuine affection in a night otherwise ruled by chaos and misfortune.

Then the power in the restaurant flickered. Then it went out. Then the fire alarm shrieked.

And suddenly you were outside in the cold with thirty other strangers, still holding your plate of pasta like a newborn, as a kitchen fire was swiftly extinguished by firemen who looked way too calm about the situation.

You turned to Bucky. “So. Wanna make out in front of the fire truck?”

He looked at you, wind ruffling his hair, eyes full of baffled affection and suppressed concern. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Romantic, huh?”

“No,” He wrapped his arm around you and tugged you into his side. “But you’re mine.”

And as the fire alarm was silenced and the restaurant staff handed out apology coupons, you stood there in the dark, your hair full of marinara, your date fully ruined, and your chest aching with the quiet joy of being adored exactly as you are.

You leaned up, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Next time, we’re going mini golfing.”

Bucky looked down at you like you’d just promised war. “God, help me.”

-

It was supposed to be the perfect redemption for your extremely chaotic dinner date.

Mini-golf was nothing too fancy. No exploding kitchens or fire trucks. Just a tiny course, soft pastel colors, and some hole-in-one shenanigans. Simple and relaxing. No wildlife to ruin everything.

Except of course, that would have been far too easy.

Bucky had already placed a sensible hat on his head, the kind of hat that gave off “I am mature, responsible, and don’t run into the street to tackle strangers” vibes. You, on the other hand, were rocking a neon pink visor and an obnoxiously bright ‘#1’ foam finger. You’d already declared yourself the reigning champion of the entire course, much to Bucky’s dismay.

“You realize we’re just here to have fun, right?” Bucky said, trying to ignore how you were methodically measuring the first hole as if it were the final stage of some Olympic event.

“Fun?” You asked, like he’d asked you to consider doing a jigsaw puzzle without a single corner piece. “We’re here to dominate, Barnes.”

He sighed, adjusting his grip on the golf club. “Just don’t do anything weird, okay?”

You flashed him a grin, all teeth and wild energy. “No promises.”

It was truly fine at first. You took your shot with the same calculated chaos you approached everything in life. The ball rolled and then… bounced off the tiny windmill. It ricocheted off the back of the frog statue, hit the clown’s nose, and shot straight into the hole.

“Hole in one!” You stood there, arms wide, as if you had just accomplished some great feat of athleticism.

Bucky, standing next to the hole, stared in stunned silence. “How…?”

“I’m just that good,” You said smugly, doing a weird celebratory dance that probably looked more like an epileptic seizure than a victory jig.

He was still staring in disbelief. “You… you’re not allowed to do that again.”

“Watch me.”

“You’re impossible,” He muttered, walking over and adjusting the grip on his own club near the ball. His shot was much more controlled. The ball landed neatly in the hole.

You blinked, slowly clapping. “Wow. Look at you. Mr. Mature.”

Bucky tossed you a mock glare, but he was still smiling. He wasn’t mad. He was just in constant disbelief at the fact that you could turn something so simple into a disaster zone.

You made your way to the next hole, where you decided this time, you were really going to focus. No distractions. No wild swings. No ricocheting frogs. You lined up the ball in a perfect stance. You took a deep breath. And then… you flipped the club completely by accident, sending the ball soaring across the green and directly into another windmill.

There was a pause before it stopped right at the entrance. It was as if the windmill itself had considered eating it, but ultimately rejected the offer.

You blinked, stunned by your own ineptitude for a moment. Bucky was staring at the windmill, then at you.

You turned to him, grinning widely. “See? It’s all part of my highly developed strategy. Confuse the course, confuse the ball. Keep ‘em guessing.”

He just sighed. “I swear to God, I don’t know why I’m here.”

“You’re here because you love me,” You replied, smirking. “It’s either that or a deep-seated addiction to chaos.”

“And because you wouldn’t let me leave,” Bucky added with a smirk. He took his next turn with more care, carefully positioning the ball and then knocking it straight into the hole.

“Okay, showoff,” You teased, trying to focus for real this time. “Let me get one in before you start your victory lap.”

-

But this date wasn’t all pure chaos.

For a brief moment, when you finally reached the last hole which, mercifully, had no ramps, moving windmills, or surprise rock slides, you did manage a solid shot. The ball rolled smoothly, looking like it had gone into the hole, a perfect arc. For just a second, there was a quiet calm between you two, and Bucky even gave you a small, approving smile.

“Okay, that was impressive,” He admitted, tossing his club aside and walking over to you.

You grinned, still overly proud of yourself. “Told you. You’re welcome for being this good at things.”

Then you turned, just as he reached out to lightly ruffle your hair, and noticed you’d overshot your ball earlier. It had not gone into the hole like it seemed. Instead, it had rolled right into a tiny water hazard at the very edge of the course, and now, a small flock of actual ducks had claimed it as their own.

“No.” You pointed dramatically. “I did not lose to ducks.”

“I’m pretty sure you lost to ducks,” Bucky said, trying to stifle his laughter.

“No, no,” You muttered, brushing off some dirt from your jeans before walking toward the water hazard and began negotiating with the ducks. “I’m gonna need you to give that ball back. I earned it. Respect me.”

Bucky was now watching you with an expression that could only be described as fascinated horror.

“I cannot believe I’m dating someone who’s talking to ducks right now.”

“Well,” YOU called over your shoulder, “I’d just like to point out that you are the one who dragged me here, Barnes. I could be at home with my plants and not having a mental breakdown in front of an audience of feathered assholes.”

One of the ducks made a threatening honk. You took a step back, eyes narrowing. “I’m not scared of you.”

Before Bucky could respond, you had the brilliant idea to “negotiate” by offering them some of your snack chips, which you had brought for “emergency rations.”

It worked. Kind of. The ducks did not care for the chips. Instead, they went on to aggressively peck the bag out of your hands and run off with it.

You stood, defeated. “They betrayed me.”

Bucky walked up, placing his hand on your shoulder in a rare moment of sympathy. “I’ll buy you a new bag of chips, if it makes you feel better.”

“I want a refund,” You said solemnly. “Those ducks will pay for this.”

He chuckled. “You know, I never thought I’d have a moment like this in my life.”

“Where you’re physically ashamed to be seen with me?” You asked innocently.

“You mean where I’m emotionally invested in your safety and happiness? Yeah, that’s the one.”

You smiled at him, your face lighting up, “Well, Barnes,” You winked dramatically, “Consider yourself lucky. I’ll never get this good at mini-golf again. This is a one-time offer.”

“Thank God for that.”

Then, you reached up and kissed him on the cheek, “Don’t think you’re off the hook yet though. I still need my ball back. It was my emotional support ball.”

Bucky’s hand slid down his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

And despite the whole, epic mess, the chaotic and dare he say hazardous golf shots, and the birds you swore were plotting your demise, you both ended up sitting in a grassy patch next to the mini-golf course. Bucky pulled out a blanket and the two of you looked up at the stars.

You leaned against him, grinning.

“Next time, we’re going bowling.”

“You’re on.”

-

Bowling was supposed to be a safe option.

No moving windmills. No ducks. No water hazards or miscalculated shots. Just a ball, a lane, and the dream of seeing Bucky try to put spin on his shots, right?

Except nothing is ever that simple with you two.

It started when you walked in, strutting up to the counter like it was the red carpet. You pointed to the most ridiculous neon bowling ball you could find, the one that looked like it had been painted with every color of the rainbow and had no real grip.

Bucky didn’t even question you at first. He just grabbed a more sensible ball and followed you to the lane. He should’ve questioned you.

The first roll was just… spectacular. You swung the ball back and released it with the same dramatic flair you gave everything else. It slid down the lane, wobbling like it was trying to make a run for the emergency exit. The pins saw it coming, too like the inanimate objects were clearly preparing to make their escape. And yet…

Crash.

All of them, knocked down for your first strike.

You threw your hands up, struck a victory pose, and immediately jammed your knee into the ball return mechanism. Bucky watched as you colorfully lectured the machine for getting in the way. He just stared at you for a solid ten seconds before muttering, “Oh no.”

You just grinned at him. “You have to admit, that was impressive.”

“You’re going to cause a bowling alley-wide catastrophe or end in up in the ER.”

“No, no,” You waved him off before giving him finger guns. “It’s fine. We just… need to keep the ball rolling.”

Bucky’s gaze was all kinds of incredulous, but you were already preparing for your next turn, oblivious to the chaos trailing behind you.

The next round was where things really got out of hand.

You decided that the best way to improve your game was to introduce some… unorthodox techniques. Bucky, in a moment of bravery or maybe just a genuine desire to watch you fail, agreed to bowl with a two-handed technique.

“I’ve seen pro bowlers do it,” You said with utmost seriousness. “It’s the future of bowling.”

“What’s the point of using two hands?” He asked, clearly trying to keep a straight face. “To get extra power?”

“Exactly,” You said, giving him a look that said, What are you, a bowling amateur? “You don’t get it, Barnes. It’s like… the bowling ball can feel my power.”

Bucky was about to comment when you stood up, placed the neon ball between your hands, and threw it, not down the lane, but sideways. The ball flew directly to the adjacent lane, bounced off the guard rail, and landed in the gutter of the lane next to yours.

“Oh my God,” Bucky gasped, “What in the hell was that?”

“Finesse,” You said smugly, “Bam. Power.”

He let out a strangled laugh. “That was a disaster. We’re gonna get kicked out.”

You paused. “Nah. I’m pretty sure they’ll respect my skill once they see how good I am at… doing whatever the hell that was.”

It only got worse from there.

Every time you tried to bowl, you somehow either a) hit yourself with the ball, b) attempted to bowl in an entirely new direction, or c) made a series of weird noises and gestures like you were conducting some kind of elaborate ritual to the gods of bowling.

At one point, you even tried to bowl with your eyes closed, saying it would make you “feel the energy of the pins.”

Bucky just stood there in the back, arms crossed, watching the trainwreck unfold before his eyes. It was like a slow-motion disaster he couldn’t stop, but he couldn’t look away either. The worst part? He was kind of enjoying it. No matter how ridiculous it got, you never once stopped being enthusiastic. Even when your ball rolled straight into the gutter of someone else’s lane for the third time in a row.

“Alright,” He said finally, after suggesting sliding down the lane to knock the pins down like an illegal slip and slide. “Let’s just finish up the game, okay? For both of our sanity.”

“You’re right,” You said, dramatically wiping your forehead. “You know what? I’m gonna let you win this one. As a gift.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said skeptically. “Sure.”

The game continued, and somehow, miraculously, you managed to finally make a decent shot, this time by doing absolutely nothing except rolling the ball in a straight line. It gently knocked down two pins. Bucky was almost speechless.

“Is this… the start of a new era?” He asked, still trying to process the sudden miracle of a swing that didn’t involve total destruction.

You pumped your fist into the air, shouting with all the drama you could muster. “YES! The power of mediocrity has blessed me!”

Bucky couldn’t hold it in anymore. He burst out laughing, completely disarmed by your inability to take anything seriously, especially bowling. “You’re a mess,” He said, shaking his head as you set up for another shot.

“And you love me for it,” You shot back with a grin, letting the ball go with a dramatic, reckless swing that sent it straight into the neighbor’s lane again.

“Well, I’m pretty sure they hate us,” Bucky noted, but the smile on his face said it all.

There was no doubt now. You two might have just broken a local bowling record for how many throws led to the ball landing in a different lane, but it was the kind of record no one ever wanted to repeat. And yet, Bucky couldn’t imagine it any other way.

At the end of the game, he stared at your final score: 15. And his? A solid 105. Somehow, you had still won in your mind cause “fifteen is closer to first place than a hundred and five”. You handed him your bowling shoes with a cheeky grin.

“I think I need a better challenge.”

Bucky shook his head, trying to stifle a grin of his own. “Okay, next time, we’re staying home. Maybe a home cooked meal or something. Something that can’t completely descend into chaos.”

“Deal,” You said, offering your hand, as if you hadn’t just bowled worse than anything anyone has ever seen before.

As you both walked out of the building, arm in arm, you both were definitely banned from that bowling alley. However, you didn’t care because you were with him.

And even though nothing ever went according to plan, it was perfectly your kind of chaos and the kind of chaos that Bucky wouldn’t trade for anything else.

Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think)

Summary: Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: More fun stuff while I think of other stuff. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

To be fair, no one explicitly said it wasn’t a romantic vacation. Which is why, when Fury assigned you and Bucky to a “low profile surveillance op” in the Carpathians, your brain heard:

Secluded mountain lodge. Cozy fires. Spy sex.

So naturally, you packed accordingly.

Bucky blinked at the rolling heart-shaped suitcase you proudly hauled to the Quinjet, emblazoned in bold pink letters: “His & Hers”.

“What is that?” He asked flatly.

You grinned. “Our mission supplies, James.”

“I said pack light.”

“I did! This is vacation-light. I only brought four books, one board game, two full sets of bath bombs, a crockpot for ambience and a grappling hook.”

He opened the suitcase, found the glow-in-the-dark stars you planned to stick on the ceiling of the safehouse, and muttered, “We’re supposed to be covert.”

“And what’s more covert than a deeply-in-love couple on a sensual nature retreat where someone might accidentally dismantle a black market weapons trade?” You batted your lashes. “Besides, you love when I do the ‘danger honeymoon’ bit.”

He exhaled slowly. “I never said I loved it.”

“You didn’t have to,” You whispered dramatically, wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying like you were dancing to a song only you could hear. “Your eyes said it. Remember when I threw that flaming fondue pot at that one Hydra guy last time? There were hearts in your eyes.”

“There were burn injuries, sweetheart.”

“Burns of passion.”

He tried, really tried hard to look annoyed, but you saw it. The tiniest twitch of his lips. He kissed the top of your head like he was apologizing to himself for encouraging you.

“You’re lucky I love you,” He said.

“I am lucky. And hot. And very well packed.”

He peeked into the duffel again. “You brought a kazoo.”

“For distraction purposes.”

“You labeled it ‘Sexy Danger Kazoo.’”

You nodded proudly. “It has sparkles.”

-

The Quinjet touched down just as twilight was bleeding over the dense Carpathian forest, a soft purple washing the sky. You hopped off with all the energy of a kid who just found out naps were optional as Bucky followed, grim-faced but patient, lugging a backpack that looked suspiciously heavier than your luggage.

The safehouse was an old cabin, camouflaged perfectly by thick vines and the shadows of tall pines. From the outside, it looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Cold War, but inside? Well… that was a different story. Stark had apparently outfitted the place with every modern convenience a couple on a "low-profile mission" might need. You immediately spotted the sleek coffee maker and made a beeline for it.

“Why do you think Fury left us here?” Bucky muttered, peeling off his jacket.

“Because this is the perfect place for a romantic getaway disguised as espionage,” You answered, pulling a ridiculous “MISSION: COZY” banner from your bag and hanging it over the cracked fireplace mantel.

Bucky froze, then rubbed his temples. “You are unbelievable.”

“I’m also in love with you,” You added, flashing a grin that was half apology, half challenge.

He sighed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine. But this is recon. Keep it professional.”

“Professional as in,” You plopped down on the one and only large bed, arms stretched wide, “Professional cuddles?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and then his lips curved into something like a smile. “You know there’s only one bed, right?”

“Oh, I know. It’s your fault for not bringing a sleeping bag.”

“You knew that,” He said, sitting down heavily next to you.

“Details, details.” You leaned your head on his shoulder and pulled the blanket over both of you. “This is perfect.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable. Bucky’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they fit perfectly. After a moment, you whispered, “So, what’s the actual mission?”

“Observe and gather intel. Don’t get caught. Probably freeze our asses off.” He let out a dry chuckle. “And babysit you.”

You smirked. “Babysitting, huh?”

“Yeah. Someone’s got to keep you from setting off the alarm with your kazoo.”

You pouted but laughed anyway. “Hey, I’m a tactical genius with a flair for drama.”

“And a flair for eating four bananas in one sitting,” He reminded you, eyes softening.

You groaned. “Don’t remind me. My stomach is still plotting revenge.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The soft crackle of the fireplace was the perfect soundtrack to your “romantic” evening. Bucky, finally starting to relax after a long day of surveillance and your relentless banter, had just pulled the blanket tighter around you when you produced your “Sexy Danger Kazoo” from your jacket pocket. You gave him a mischievous grin.

“Want to hear my latest war tactic?” You whispered, raising the glittery instrument like a weapon.

Bucky’s eyes widened. “No.”

But of course, you played it anyway. A bizarre, off-key rendition of the Avengers theme that sounded more like a dying duck than a call to arms.

His sigh was so long it almost became a sound effect. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly in love,” You corrected, settling back down with a triumphant smirk.

Then, just as you were about to doze off, because even chaotic geniuses need sleep, the quiet night shattered.

CLANK.

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the cabin.

Bucky shot up, pulling you with him. “Hydra.”

You blinked. “Already?”

He didn’t wait for you to grab your grappling hook or glitter gel pens. He was moving, fast and silent. You tried to follow, but your pajama pants tangled on the bedframe, and you stumbled, barely catching yourself on the wooden floor.

“Smooth,” Bucky muttered from the shadows.

The door to the cabin burst open, and two Hydra agents stepped inside, rifles raised. But before they could fully process their surroundings, a sudden blaring kazoo shattered the silence. Yours, of course.

“Surprise!” You yelled, charging like a glitter-wielding warrior.

Bucky facepalmed.

Before the Hydra agents could react, you whipped out a handful of glowsticks and started flinging them like grenades, the room suddenly glowing in psychedelic neon colors that were suspiciously brighter than any he had ever seen.

“What the hell is going on?!” One Hydra operative shouted, squinting at the glowing chaos.

Bucky took the opportunity to disable one with a swift punch, then ducked behind the counter to cover you.

“You did say you had distraction expertise,” He hissed.

You grinned wildly, still buzzing with adrenaline. “I’m a tactical genius. Trust me.”

The fight was brief but chaotic, involving a lot of slipping on stray bananas you’d left in the kitchen (don’t ask), glitter explosions from one of your surprise bombs, and a kazoo solo that was definitely more disorienting than tactical.

When it was finally over, Bucky turned to you, exasperated but undeniably impressed.

“You’re the worst mission partner I’ve ever had.”

“And the best,” You said, grabbing his hand and pulling him close. “But hey, if you wanted a boring recon op, maybe you should’ve asked Sam.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Next time, I’m bringing the actual weapons and leaving the kazoo at home.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

Outside, the Carpathian night resumed its quiet, the stars blinking down on a cabin that was very much not low profile. But inside, you and Bucky knew something important:

Chaos was one of the only things you did well and somehow, it was working perfectly.

Because He Always Knows

Summary: You're close friends with Bucky Barnes, trusting his quiet, protective nature. What you don’t know is that Bucky is secretly obsessed with you. Watching you, tracking your every move, and quietly eliminating anyone who gets too close. And he’ll do anything to keep you safe, close…and his. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Stalking. Tracking reader (location, cameras, etc.) Some implied violence toward others. Yandere themes.

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: Not going to lie, I have not seen many Yandere Bucky fics. Maybe I’m not looking hard enough. I think it’d be cool to turn this into a series though, depends if other people like it or not. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Main Masterlist

You’d known Bucky Barnes for a while now. Ever since you joined the Avengers on the intel and support side, he’d somehow gravitated toward you. Quiet and subtle. He never talked much unless spoken to, and whenever he did, it was always calm and short. But around you, he softened a little. He offered small, quiet smiles, sat beside you even when there were empty seats elsewhere. And he always seemed to know when you needed help. It was comforting. Familiar. You thought of him as a good friend, someone who didn’t push or pry.

What you didn’t know was that Bucky knew your schedule better than you did. He knew what time you got your coffee, which café down the block you preferred, and even which music you played in your room when you were winding down.

He never broke your trust. At least, not in any obvious way. But he was always watching. From rooftops. From darkened hallways. Even from shadows in the compound when you thought you were alone. He wasn’t trying to be creepy, not in his mind. He just needed to make sure you were safe. That no one got too close. That you didn’t drift away from him.

When you talked about a new friend one afternoon, some guy from the tech department who made you laugh, Bucky’s smile faltered for only a second. You didn’t notice it, but it was there, a flicker of cold calculation beneath the warmth. He nodded, asked a few harmless questions about him, and then let the topic drop. Later that day, the tech guy mysteriously fell down a flight of stairs. Nothing serious, but just enough to keep him out of work for a few weeks. Bucky never said anything. He simply showed up at your door like any other day with soup this time and a quiet, “Need company?”

You welcomed him in. Why wouldn’t you? He was always so gentle with you, always so present. His gloved hands carried your groceries, fixed your lock when it jammed, even installed extra security on your windows “just in case.” You never questioned how he knew you’d been anxious after that strange man on the subway followed you home. You never told anyone about it, but Bucky acted before you even had to.

Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a second too long. His gaze intense, unreadable. He’d look away quickly, but the feeling would linger. You chalked it up to Bucky just being… Bucky. A little odd, a little broken, but ultimately good.

You didn’t see the way his jaw tensed when someone touched your arm. You didn’t notice the thin notebooks he kept tucked away, filled with observations about you. What you wore, what you said, who you talked to. Every page was a soft obsession written in ink, filled with the belief that you were his. Not in a romantic, normal way. In a quiet, inevitable, belonging sort of way. You were his peace, his reason, and he would burn the world down before letting someone else take you.

To you, he was just a friend. A good one. Steady. Loyal. Maybe a little protective.

To Bucky, you were everything. And he was never more than a few feet behind you; watching, guarding, and waiting. Always waiting.

One evening, you stayed late in the compound’s tech lab. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a backlog of reports and an excuse to avoid your empty apartment, then you heard the door open. Bucky stopped by with two coffees, one black, one exactly the way you liked yours. He didn’t ask if you wanted one. Come to think of it, he never did. Somehow, he just knew.

You smiled and thanked him as he sat nearby, silent as ever, occasionally glancing at your screen. It was quiet, comfortable even, until you laughed at something on your phone.

“Who’s that?” Bucky asked, and you glanced up. His tone was calm, but you noticed the way his shoulders tightened.

“Just a guy I matched with,” You said, smiling without much thought. You didn’t think he would know or understand what dating apps are in the modern day. “We’ve been texting a little. He’s funny.”

You missed it, but Bucky’s knuckles whitened around his cup. “You gonna meet him?”

“Maybe,” You shrugged. “We’ll see.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the floor for a beat too long. You assumed it was one of his quiet spells again: those moments where the past clawed at him and left him speechless. You reached over and gently squeezed his arm.

“Hey. You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

You didn’t ask what about. You’d learned not to push him. You knew he would talk if he needed to. But behind his still eyes, something shifted.

That night, he followed you home like he always did. He was quiet as a shadow, footsteps masked by the hum of the city and his experience as the Winter Soldier. You made it home safely, texted him a “thank you for the coffee,” and turned in for the night. Bucky stayed outside your building for hours, hidden across the street. He didn’t move for a while, didn’t blink. Just waited.

The next day, your date canceled. No explanation. Just a sudden, awkward message and a block. You frowned at your phone, confused and disappointed.

“He didn’t deserve your time anyway,” Bucky tried to comfort you later when you vented about it. The way he looked at you, soft smile and worried eyes, you found yourself agreeing. Though, you weren’t sure why.

Days passed. The missed connections started to pile up. Plans you made with others were mysteriously interrupted. It was always something: car issues, sudden emergencies, sick coworkers. Yet Bucky was always around, always the one to stay and offer, “Want to grab food instead?” or say “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.” You welcomed the company. He was stable, kind and he cared.

But something started to gnaw at you. The feeling of being watched never quite left. Doors you were sure you locked felt slightly ajar. Items shifted. Your phone sometimes buzzed with strange glitches. You mentioned it in passing to Bucky. But he reassured you softly like he always did, “You’re safe. I promise.” His voice was low, almost reverent.

And you believed him, because no one protected you like Bucky did. No one was as constant, as present. Besides, you were probably overthinking it anyways.

What you didn’t see were the cameras tucked in the corners of your ceiling, hidden well behind the smoke detector and air vents. You didn’t know some tracking program had been installed on your phone nor the way Bucky’s fingers traced your location like a map he’d memorized.

To you, he was just Bucky. A little rough around the edges. A quiet and stead friend who was always there for you.

To him, you were the reason he hadn’t fallen apart completely. You were everything. His home. His anchor. And if you ever tried to leave him, if you ever even thought of running, he’d know. But he knows you wouldn’t do such a thing, you don’t even suspect a thing. Perhaps you never will. It’s better for you this way. But if you did, he would catch on immediately. Because he always knows.

Falling For You, Again and Again

Summary: Each time you "die" and return, you fall in love with Bucky all over again in different ways. Bucky sees a new version of you every time, but he’s always his same self. Each time, you both always find your ways back to each other, but you never know it's happened before. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power of immortality. However, each death erases your memory of what you knew and who you were before. ANGST.

Word Count: 2.6k+

A/N: I wasn’t even sure if I could classify this under this series. However, it’s still an enhanced ability. Also, I’m hoping y’all like this. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The first time you came back to life, it took three days. You woke in a hospital morgue, shivering under a white sheet, the taste of salt and ash on your tongue. You had no memory of your name, no recollection of what had killed you, and no sense of identity.

The only thing you possessed was a quiet panic and the sharp, cold awareness that you should not be here. You stumbled out into the world with no guidance, no answers, and one inexplicable truth: you couldn’t die.

You learned the pattern eventually. Every time you died whether by accident or violence, sickness or sacrifice, you returned. The process was inconsistent though. Sometimes, it took hours. Other times, days or weeks. Each time, you emerged in your body just as it was before death, seemingly untouched… but your memories, every one of them, were stripped away.

You couldn’t remember the name of the man who’d died holding your hand on a battlefield. Or the child you once saved from drowning. Or the language you’d spoken fluently last time you were alive. Every death reset your soul like a blank canvas, and the world became something you had to re-learn.

Sometimes people told you things about who you were, where you’d been, but they felt like borrowed stories. You smiled politely. Pretended. Sometimes even fell in love with the past versions of yourself they described. But you never felt like her.

The only exception was him.

The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, it was in a coffee shop in D.C. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know yours, either. He was sitting alone reading something dense and battered yet you were inexplicably drawn to him, like an invisible thread pulled you into his orbit. You stood in line behind him without realizing, your fingers twitching as if remembering a touch you’d never felt. He glanced back. His eyes locked on yours.

He stared like he’d seen a ghost.

You didn’t speak,not then but you sat across from him twenty minutes later because you felt you should. Because your heart beat faster when he smiled, and it shouldn’t have. Because he seemed to know you, and you… you wanted to know why.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asked, softly, one hand wrapped around a warm mug.

You shook your head. “I don’t even remember me.”

He swallowed hard, staring at the steam between you. “I think you’ve died again.”

You didn’t ask how he knew. You just believed him.

It was like that every time.

You’d die. Come back. Then forget.

And somehow, Bucky would find you. Or you’d find him. A different place. A different life. But the same pull. You might meet him at a bookstore, brushing fingertips over the same worn copy of Catch-22. Or in a combat zone, both fighting for someone else’s cause. Or on a rainy street corner where he offered you a shared umbrella without knowing if you’d remember him this time. Sometimes you’d fall in love quickly. Sometimes slowly. But always, deeply.

He tried not to hold on too tightly. He never told you too much too fast. He let you find your own path, even if it meant losing you all over again.

But every version of you looked at him like you’d known him forever. Every version of you fell in love with him, as if your soul remembered even when your mind couldn’t.

And that was the tragedy of it. For him, it was always a reunion. For you, it was always the beginning.

-

Rain fell in soft curtains over the city, blurring the glass of the bookstore window and washing the world into dull, dreamlike greys. Inside, the scent of old paper, dust, and aging wood filled the quiet. Bucky sat in the far corner, a thick book open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading. His fingers had gone still on the page twenty minutes ago.

He’d spent the past eleven months scouring D.C. by checking shelters, hospitals, cafés, the Metro; anywhere someone who had nothing might go. Most of the time, you always seemed to come back near where you died, and though he didn’t know exactly where that had been this time, instinct had guided him here.

The bookstore had become his checkpoint. A place of stillness where he could let the anxiety press against his ribs without showing on his face. He came every Sunday, pretending to read, waiting for a flicker of something to pull the world back into motion.

Then the door opened.

The bell jingled, and cold air swept in, heavy with rain and city smoke. A figure stepped inside, hunched slightly with hair damp and clinging to their cheeks. You looked up, blinking against the light, eyes wide and searching.

Bucky went still.

You’d returned.

Even before you saw him, even before you reached for the books on the nearest shelf, he knew. It wasn’t just the way you looked even though your face never changed. It was something else. A tension in your posture. A flicker of familiarity in your eyes that didn’t belong to this version of you, not yet.

You drifted further into the store, trailing fingers over spines as though pulled by instinct. He stood slowly, book forgotten on the chair behind him, as his heart hammered in his chest.

Then, like fate nudging you into place, your hand stopped on a copy of Catch-22.

It was always that book.

You ran your hand over the cover like it meant something you couldn’t name before your gaze flickered over to his. “Have we met?” You asked in a soft and uncertain tone. “I’m sorry… I feel like I should know you.”

God, it hit him like a punch every time.

Bucky’s voice caught in his throat before he forced a quiet, “Yeah. We’ve met before.”

You smiled politely, a little nervous. But your eyes lingered on his face like they were trying to etch something into memory that didn’t exist yet. “Do you… do you know who I am?”

He nodded. “I do.”

And he wouldn’t say more, not yet. He never did. You needed to come to it in your own time. So he took a step back, gestured to the armchair in the reading corner. “Do you want to sit for a while?”

You blinked at him, then at the chair, as if the idea of resting had never occurred to you. Slowly, you nodded.

“I’d like that.”

You stayed for two hours. Browsing, reading, or asking cautious gentle questions that Bucky answered with care. You didn’t remember dying. You never did. But you’d woken up in a hospital two weeks ago, no ID, no fingerprints on file. A social worker had told you your memory loss might be trauma-induced. You didn’t tell them about the dreams, about the way your hands shook when you tried to sleep. Or how you sometimes stared at your reflection and didn’t feel like it belonged to you.

Bucky listened quietly, never once pressing. He never once was asking you to be someone you weren’t ready to become again.

And just before you left, you turned to him. “I know this sounds strange, but… I feel safe with you. Like I’ve known you before.”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “You have.”

You opened your mouth like you wanted to ask more but didn’t.

Instead, you said, “I think I’d like to see you again.”

He smiled. “I’ll be here.”

You hesitated one more moment, then added, “Maybe I’ll come back next week… and you can tell me a story.”

He watched you go, heart aching.

He had hundreds. All of them about you.

You came back the next Sunday, just like you said you would. Same bookstore with the same faint, hesitant smile. This time, your coat was dry and your hair was pulled back. There was a small bandage on your knuckle from some accident you wouldn’t remember. You hadn’t told Bucky that, but he noticed. He always noticed the small things.

The two of you sat in the corner by the fogged-up window, and Bucky brought you tea from the shop next door without asking what kind you liked. He already knew. You took it with a grateful murmur, sipping slowly before your eyes flickered up to him.

“You said last week that you knew me,” You spoke cautiously but curious. “How? Did we work together or…?”

He studied you for a moment, then looked down at the teacup in his hands. “Not work. We were close, for a long time.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Were we… lovers?”

There it was. The question that always came eventually. He looked back up. Your expression wasn’t flirtatious, it was vulnerable. Searching.

“Yes,” He answered quietly. “Many times.”

Your breath hitched just a fraction. And then, “You say that like we’ve done this before.”

He hesitated. “Because we have.”

You stared, frowning. “Have what? Met?”

“Fallen in love.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Then you looked down at your hands. “Is that why I feel… strange around you? Like I should be afraid to get too close, but also like I want to?”

“Probably,” He laughed softly. “Most versions of you have that same feeling. You never remember me, but something in you always recognizes me. I don’t know if it’s instinct, or your soul remembering, or just… whatever’s left behind.”

You were silent, absorbing that. Then, in a quiet voice, “How many times?”

Bucky met your eyes. “Forty-eight.”

You looked away sharply. “Forty-eight deaths.”

“That I know of.”

“And I don’t remember any of them?”

“No.”

You stared out the window, your fingers tightening around the mug. “Then how can you… how do you not hate me for forgetting?”

He leaned forward, voice steady. “Because I remember you. All of you, and because every version of you is worth meeting again.”

Tears welled up in your eyes without control as you wiped them quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know why that made me-“

“It happens sometimes,” He reassured gently. “Your body remembers things your mind doesn’t. Emotions bleed through.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him and something in your chest ached. Something deep and familiar.

“Tell me a story,” You whispered. “Tell me something about her- about me. A version you knew.”

Bucky nodded.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, battered notebook. The leather was fraying at the edges, the pages slightly warped from time and tears. He set it on the table, his hand resting on the cover.

“You used to hum in your sleep,” He said quietly. “Sometimes it was a lullaby, sometimes it was nothing at all. But it was always soft. And when you had nightmares or when the dreams got too heavy, you’d say my name before you woke up.”

You stared at the journal, transfixed.

Bucky’s voice didn’t tremble, but there was a break in it now. “That version of you was terrified of losing herself. You left notes, voice recordings, instructions. But every time you came back, you were still a stranger to yourself.”

You reached for the journal before you could stop yourself.

“Can I… read them?”

His hand remained on the cover for a moment longer, then he slowly slid it toward you.

“You can.”

You took it carefully. Reverently. Like it was something sacred.

Every time you left his world, he added another entry in that journal and kept it close with him. It was as if to keep a piece of you nearby when he couldn’t find you right away. The journal was heavier than it looked.

Not in weight, but in presence. It felt lived in, full of love and plagued with grief. You held it in your lap like something precious and terrifying, afraid that turning the page would tear a hole in your chest you didn’t know how to close.

You glanced up at Bucky. He hadn’t moved as he watched you with the quiet patience of someone who had waited through storms you couldn’t remember. You looked down again as your fingers brushed over the leather cover. There were marks, faint indents from a pen pressed too hard. Some pages were dog-eared. One corner had a smear of dried paint. Or maybe blood.

“I don’t understand,” You whispered. “Why would you keep doing this? Why would you…wait for me? For this?”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “Because even when it breaks me, you’re still worth every second I get.”

Your mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. Instead, you opened the journal.

The first page held a drawing. A sketch in faded pencil, your face, or someone who looked like you. The features were careful, practiced. You were looking down in the image, eyes shadowed, but peaceful. Beneath it, in neat handwriting:

11th time: She liked to paint near windows in sunlight. Said it made her feel alive. She told me to keep going, even when she was gone. I didn’t know how. Still don’t, but I’m trying.

Your heart pounded.

You turned the page.

31st time: She left me a voicemail before she died. Said if I ever found her again and she didn’t remember me, to tell her it was okay. That she was stronger than her forgetting. That love wasn’t something the body forgot, it was something that echoed in the soul and bones.

And the next:

42nd: She came back scared. She didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. But the second I said her name, she cried. She didn’t know why, just said it felt like home.

Your hand shook as you flipped further.

Tiny mementos were tucked inside throughout the journal. A movie ticket. A torn page from a crossword puzzle. A faded photo of the two of you, you laughing with your arms around him, eyes bright with a love you didn’t remember but suddenly longed for like oxygen.

And then… your voice.

Not now. Not this version. But one of you from before. It was a clipped audio, barely two minutes long, the file embedded into a tiny recorder taped to a page.

You pressed play.

“Hi. I know you’re me. Or some part of me. Or… maybe you’re someone entirely different now. That’s okay. You don’t have to remember everything. I just want you to know he’s safe. His voice is safe. His hands are safe. If you don’t remember anything else, remember that.”

You felt the sob before you heard it. Your hand flew to your mouth as your chest crumpled in on itself. You had said this. You had known you’d forget. And you’d wanted to leave yourself something, some thread to hold on to.

Across from you, Bucky didn’t speak. His eyes were glassy, but he didn’t interrupt. He never did. He let you come to him, always.

The journal was shaking in your hands. “I don’t know how to live like this,” You said, broken. “How can I be me if I’m always being rewritten?”

He leaned forward, voice low and certain. “Because no matter how many times the world erases you… you always find your way back.”

You looked at him again and something in you moved. A thread, a spark. Not a memory but an emotion. A warmth like sunlight through your body. It didn’t bring images, names, or facts. But it brought trust. Safety. The echo of something lost but not gone.

“Stay with me,” You pleaded in a whisper.

“I always do,” He said, steady.

And for the first time, in this lifetime, you reached for his hand. Not out of obligation. Not from the ghost of some former self. But because your heart, untouched by memory, still knew him.

And Bucky held on like he had every time before.

Just got the notification today, thank you all for 100 likes! I know it’s spread out among posts and might be too small a milestone to be proud of. However, I’m grateful nonetheless! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Oh dear, I’m so sorry you went through that. No one should be made to feel like they’re ‘too much’ for simply surviving something so difficult. You deserve the kind of love that holds you through the hard days without hesitation! I hope one day you’ll find that special someone who sees you the way Bucky sees the reader. Thank you for reading! ♡

Exactly As You Are

Summary: You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes supports you through the bad days and gently breaks down the walls you’ve built from past abandonment. Despite fears of being a burden, Bucky stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness. Angst. Hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The first time Bucky saw you, he thought you were just tired.

You were sitting on a bench outside a small, independent bookstore in Brooklyn, a reusable water bottle half-empty beside you, a paperback open in your lap. It was cold out, the kind of sharp October chill that cuts through jackets and settles in bones. But you sat completely still with your shoulders slumped, hands trembling slightly, and breath shallow.

He might not have noticed if not for the way your fingers struggled to hold the book steady.

He didn’t stop. Not at first. He just glanced, like a thousand other people passing by, and kept walking. But two blocks later, something tugged at him soft and persistent, like a memory he couldn’t place. He turned around.

You hadn’t moved from your spot.

By the time he walked back and crouched in front of you, your lips were pale, and your skin had that waxy undertone he recognized from war hospitals and med units. His instincts kicked in, but not the soldier kind, rather the man who’d learned how to read distress in the quietest forms.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low but steady.

You blinked up at him slowly, as if hearing him from underwater. Then you offered a weak, breathless smile and said, “Yeah, just… my body does this sometimes.”

“Does what?”

“Stops.”

He didn’t fully understand what that meant then. But it wasn’t pity that made him sit beside you, not fear or heroism either. It was something else. Familiarity. A kind of haunted recognition.

“Can I call someone for you?” He asked. “Friend? Partner? Family?”

You shook your head. “No one close by. It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”

But your hand was still shaking as you reached for the water. He watched silently, then gently reached over and held the bottle steady so you could drink.

“Thanks,” You murmured.

He nodded. He didn’t press. He simply sat there, beside a stranger who looked like their body was betraying them one breath at a time.

After a long stretch of silence, you spoke again. “You don’t have to wait.”

“Don’t want you to pass out on a sidewalk.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”

He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”

You turned to look at him then, and something in your expression shifted.

“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.

His breath caught. You weren’t asking. You knew.

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. “Then you get it.”

He didn't reply out loud, but the way his hand hovered hesitant, then steady, offered the only answer you needed.

Eventually, you regained enough energy to stand. He offered his arm, and you took it without flinching at the metal. That surprised him. Most people still tensed.

Inside the bookstore, he bought a copy of the same book you'd been reading before slipping you his number. You noticed, and raised a brow.

“Trying to impress me?”

He shrugged. “Trying to have an excuse to see you again.”

You laughed then. Still tired, still aching, but real. “Well. It worked.”

-

You didn’t start dating right away. There were slow texts. A few coffee shop visits where he learned which chairs were softest for you to sit in for long periods, which days your hands couldn’t hold a cup, and how sometimes you’d go quiet mid-sentence but not from disinterest, just exhaustion.

But Bucky never minded. He’d lived too many years rushing through the world. With you, everything slowed down. And for once, that felt like healing.

On your first date, he had planned it carefully.

Not because he thought you needed to be impressed but because he wanted to show you he was paying attention. That he’d been listening, clocking every tiny detail you never made a big deal about.

So when he asked, “Dinner with me?” and you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was in one of its quiet warning phases, he didn’t try to convince you. He simply offered an alternative.

“I know a rooftop,” He said. “It’s a quiet and private place with a good view. I’ll bring the food.”

You smiled, that same tired-but-warm curve of the lips he was learning to read better each time. “What kind of food?”

“Soft stuff,” He smiled before teasing. “Things that won’t piss off your stomach.”

You laughed, which he counted as a win.

The night of the date, he showed up at your door with a reusable picnic bag over one shoulder and that awkward, lopsided grin of his. You were in your softest clothes, sweatpants and a knit sweater two sizes too big, and your hair wasn’t doing what you wanted it to.

But he looked at you like you were wearing a red carpet gown.

“I like this,” He said simply, and gestured to your entire self. “It’s very you.”

“Exhausted?”

“Real.”

The trip to the rooftop was just a short elevator ride and half a flight of stairs, but halfway up, your legs started to tremble.

You tried to play it off, pausing to “check the sky,” you said. But Bucky had already seen the shift in your breathing, the tremor in your hand as you gripped the railing.

Without a word, he stepped behind you and wrapped an arm gently around your waist, the cool metal of his left hand bracing your spine.

“You okay with help?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded once. He didn’t rush you. Just matched your pace, supporting you the whole way to the roof.

By the time you sat down on the old couch someone had dragged up there years ago, your body was already crashing. You tried to hide it like you always did. But your hands were limp in your lap, your eyes glassy, and your shoulders had that slight slump Bucky was learning to hate.

He knelt beside you.

“Tell me what you need,” He said gently. “No pressure. Just… tell me.”

You wanted to smile. To tell him he didn’t have to stay, or fuss, or worry. But the words stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

“…I don’t want to ruin this.”

His eyes softened. “You’re not.”

“It’s not fair. You finally ask me out and I’m… this.”

“You were always this,” He countered. “And I asked you anyway.”

That made you blink.

He took the blanket from the bag, yes he’d brought one, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then he pulled out a thermos of broth and a soft rice dish you’d once mentioned in passing. No wine. Just herbal tea. No candles. Just the city lights. No pressure to be anything but what you were.

You looked at him and he didn’t flinch from the fog in your eyes or the weakness in your voice. He didn’t reach for the version of you from the good days. He reached for you.

“I don’t need the perfect night,” He told you gently, watching you carefully. “I just need you.”

You let out a slow, aching breath. “What if I never get better?”

He brushed a knuckle down your cheek. “Then I’ll learn every version of ‘bad’ until I can walk you through it with my eyes closed.”

You felt something in your chest unravel.

And when he curled up beside you, careful not to jostle your fragile form and content to just sit in silence; you knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.

It was the beginning of something real.

-

There were days that weren’t as pleasant. Yet time and time again, Bucky insisted on staying. Comforting and reassuring you every step of the way.

One afternoon, the apartment was quiet but not the peaceful kind. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, thick and tense. The kind that settled in your chest and made it hard to breathe.

You sat on the couch with your knees pulled up, a blanket draped around your shoulders even though it was midafternoon. You should’ve taken your meds earlier, should’ve eaten something by now, should’ve answered the texts piling up on your phone. But your joints ached like they were full of broken glass, your head pounded from hours of tension, and every sound, every thought, felt like it might shatter you.

You didn’t hear Bucky come in. Not at first.

He always moved quietly, even when he wasn’t trying to. It was a habit that never left him. A ghost of another life. He didn’t say anything right away, just took in the picture in front of him. The faraway look in your eyes. The way your hand gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. The way your body curled in, like it was trying to disappear.

He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, not touching you yet, but remaining close.

“Hey,” He greeted gently. “Rough day?”

You nodded, barely. Your throat felt too tight to speak.

Bucky waited. He was good at that, waiting. Letting you come to him on your own time with no pressure or pity. Just quiet, patient presence.

But then the words came tumbling out before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this all the time. With me.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in a kind of slow heartbreak. Like he’d heard this before because he had, and every time it hurt more.

He reached slowly, brushing your hand with his gloved fingers before gently taking it in his.

“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s true. You didn’t sign up for this. For all the canceled plans, and the bad days, and the… God, the way I feel like a burden.”

He exhaled, long and steady, and then stood, just enough to sit beside you. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you in with a kind of care that felt deliberate. Solid and unshakeable.

“I know what it feels like to think you’re too much,” He began slowly. “To think you’re broken, that people will get tired, or that you’ll wear them down until they leave.”

You swallowed hard.

“I spent years feeling like that,” He continued. “Even when Steve stayed. Even when Sam stuck by me. It never went away easy. But then I met you.”

His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.

“You taught me that people aren’t burdens. That pain doesn’t make someone less worthy of love. That needing help isn’t weakness.”

You shook your head, voice hoarse. “That’s different. You went through hell. You didn’t choose it.”

“And neither did you.” His voice was low but firm now. “You didn’t ask for this. You fight through more pain in a day than most people even imagine. And you still smile. You still care. You still show up.”

“But this isn’t fair,” Your voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. You could… you could have anyone.”

Bucky went very still.

You turned your head away. “I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated. I don’t want to trap you in something broken.”

His voice was low, firm as he asked. “You think I stay out of pity?”

“No. I think you’re kind. And maybe you don’t realize yet how permanent this is. How much this takes. I can’t go on missions with you, I can’t run, I can’t even cook without getting dizzy. Some days I can’t even-“

You broke off. Voice cracking.

“I can’t give you a normal life, Bucky. I’m tired all the time. And someday you’re going to wake up and realize I’m more burden than person and I can’t survive that again-“

Your breath caught. You hadn’t meant to say again. But it was out there now.

He didn’t try to shush you. He didn’t give you empty words or say you’re not broken, or you’re still beautiful, or it’s not that bad. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours. His voice was raw and honest.

“You think I want a normal life?”

You blinked at him.

“I spent years being turned into someone else’s weapon,” He whispered. “I wake up some nights not knowing what year it is. I have blood on my hands I can’t wash off, and a mind that doesn’t always feel like mine. You think I came here for normal?”

He exhaled shakily. “No, sweetheart. I came here for you. Just you.”

Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.

“I don’t want perfect,” He said. “I don’t want easy. I want real. And you… this pain, this fight, all of it; it’s real. You’re still here. You keep going. And if you think for one second I’m walking away because your body’s at war with you…”

His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.

“…then you don’t know me yet. I choose to be here,” He said. “Not out of obligation. Not because I feel sorry for you. But because I love you. All of you. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”

Tears welled up before you could stop them. You hated crying in front of people but with Bucky, it never felt like weakness. It just felt honest, safe.

He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you like a fortress. “You are not a burden,” He murmured. “You are my home.”

And in the stillness, something inside you began to loosen. Not the pain, no, that stayed. But the guilt, the weight of it all began to lift just a little as you let yourself be held.

For once, it felt okay to just exist. To be loved, even when you didn’t feel lovable.

And Bucky held you like he’d never let you forget it again.

Because he didn’t try to fix you.

He just loved you.

Exactly as you are.